The Girl Inside
by SeasonVelvet
Summary: Nina and Mitchell have a moment in the kitchen.


Mitchell and Nina fanfiction. Perhaps to be continued. I attempted to find some Mitchell/Nina but apparently no one wants to go there and I could find nothing. I thought their conflict in season three was interesting and

always enjoy implications/connotations between characters that are not exploited or explored in cannon to be hashed on in fanfiction. It's really short, really vague. Basically it's . . . tense sexual tension. Hope you enjoy!

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><p>The Girl Inside<p>

She had just gotten home from the hospital. Her head hung slightly as she slipped out of her overcoat and sighed to be relieved of the cold and the dark. Her car was in the shop this week and public transportation was the wearying alternative. Honestly she didn't even know what was wrong with it, apparently some leaking or beeping or it being in a mood or something. She thought fondly of George, he and Mitchell having 'taken a look at it' yesterday, and smiled a little to herself at his authoritative concern. She heard his voice in her head.

As she was unwrapping her scarf, the goofy look of daydreaming still on her face, Mitchell came around the corner of the kitchen. Her eye caught his sharply and time seemed to still as it always does when lost in the unexpected pool of anothers' gaze. His black goat hair hung a little in front of his eyes, and she noted his tense and domineering bearing, with the predators high curved shoulders and prominent brow. She gave him a smile, not a little cautious, as he leaned against the frame of the white wood rim, either amused at some inner dialogue or genuinely happy to see her she could not tell by the look in his eyes.

She ignored the way his gaze did not deviate from her as she turned to hang up her scarf. She was conscious of her every movement. For no reason she could discern, she felt disquieted. Mentally shaking herself, she turned around and walked past him into the kitchen. She saw him out of the corner of her eye lazily swing around behind her and casually waltz into the kitchen, seemingly bored and nonchalant. She focused on the inside of the fridge, and the brightness of the sterile light banished the rest of the room to shadow behind her.

Mitchell flicked on the light and it flickered as it struggled to come to life. After a second the kitchen came in to sharp, if slightly yellow, relief.

"Thanks."

"No problem," came his low craggily timbre, closer behind her than she would have thought. "Do you mind if I . . ?" He indicated the fridge and she nodded and stuttered, "Uh, no, yeah, go ahead," and watched as he reached in and grabbed a beer, giving her a smile as he popped it open before turning to lounge against the counter behind her, in front of the empty sink and the drapeless window above it. His shirt had brushed against her.

She grabbed the plastic container of macaroni she had made last Sunday, placed it on the counter.

"So, how are you, Nina? We haven't had much chance to chat lately."  
>'Since you stopped me from killing Herrick and we had that awkward conversation in the hall where I threatened you' went unsaid. Rain pattered softly against the glass of the window. The kitchen light was garish and harsh in contrast to the blue dark of the January evening, so that she had to blink to clear blobs of neon green from her vision. Stretching on her tip toes to reach a bowl, she supplied elusively,<p>

"Well, you know how it is with the baby and check ups and what with Herrick and all that's been going on . . ."

"I understand, I understand." He pushed himself up off the counter to pace the length of the floor, window to refrigerator, biting his thumb.  
>She had to move around him to get back to the tub of pasta. She was beginning to lose her patience with this new mood of his, and might have expressed this, but that nameless disquiet she had felt refrained her from doing so. She would later recognize this as fear.<p>

"But tell me, Nina." She looked up abruptly to have her eyes stopped by a midsection, then flicked them up to peer into his face. She was startled at the proximity. His eyes were overcast with dark as he towered in front of her, eclipsing the light from the naked ceiling bulb.

His voice was silky sweet, like a web being spun around her by a black spider. He inclined his hips towards her, moved in closer.

"You're not avoiding me, are you?" He slipped an arm around her shoulders, and cocked his head to peer with mocking cheer down at her.

She was crushed uncomfortably into his body that was thin and strong where hers was soft and curved. For a moment her body turned into a marionette to which he pulled the strings, and she jiggled into him helplessly for a moment as her gave her a 'friendly' shake on the arm.

All of this might seem harmless. But she knew him. Oh, not in the way George did, not the intimacy and anguish of their friendship. No. She knew him as an adversary.

If fact, they always had been.

For George, for his time, his loyalty, his love. Competition for dominance. They were both very territorial, after all.

She extracted herself from the embrace. Keeping up the civil charade, her warning was only in her eyes as she said,

"Wouldn't dream of it. Now, I appreciate that you don't eat, but if you wouldn't mind moving out of the way of the macaroni I would be much obliged. Do not get between a pregnant lady and her dinner!" She joked lamely, her humor forced, but their shrewd eyes met and between them passed a dark look that seemed to drown her.

She was not sure what he was thinking. He slid along the counter to unveil the macaroni behind him, his eyes daring. He gave her only enough space to reach the container, a petty power play.

Everything stood to attention in this poignant and painfully hyper aware moment for Nina as she stepped in again, entered his line of reach.  
>All to pretend nothing was amiss.<p>

His smile was a baring of teeth.

At that precise moment headlights shone in through the window and the sound of rustling gravel could be heard from the driveway. George was back, and Annie. A few seconds later boots could be heard against the stone stair of the entrance and the front door opened to George's shout of hello.

Mitchell left to greet them, all smiles and accommodation. She turned grimly back to the macaroni and stabbed it with her fork.


End file.
